Anita Mills (7 page)

“Miss Morland … Annie …” Dominick leaned forward to shake Anne.

She shifted her body, raising her arm to cover her eyes, and turned to lay her head on Albert Bascombe’s shoulder. Rousing, he straightened up to push her toward her corner.

“Ruinin’ m’coat,” he mumbled sleepily. He passed his hand over his face and forced his eyes open. “Where the devil are we?”

“The last village ere Nottingham.” Dominick touched Anne again. “Miss Morland …”

Her head nodded, and she slid down in the seat, leaning once again into her seatmate. “Dash it, but I ain’t a pillow,” he complained. He looked down, seeing the tousled hair against his arm, and sighed. “S’pose the coat’s ruined anyway, ain’t it?” Raising his eyes to Dominick, he muttered, “Don’t seem right to abandon her, does it? Look at her—plumb fagged out.”

“Weasel-bit.”

Bertie shook his head to clear it, then winced visibly. “Dreamt you said I could call you Dominick.”

“I don’t care what you call me. Miss Morland—”

“Call her Annie—said you could—remember that.” Bertie squeezed his eyes shut against the light, then gingerly opened them again. “Village don’t tell me nothing.”

“I sent Cribbs for coffee, and Davies is seeing to the horses, I believe.” This time Dominick shook Anne’s shoulder more forcefully. “Come on, Annie girl—got to rise.”

“Unnnnhhhhh?”

“We’ve got to find you something to wear.”

“Too tired. Go away.” She turned her head into Bertie’s coat, muffling her voice. “So sleepy.”

“I don’t know, Dev … Dominick, maybe we ought to let her sleep. Ain’t hurting anything but m’coat, and the dashed thing’s beyond redeeming anyway.”

“We haven’t the time. Annie …” Dominick slipped his hands under her arms and pulled her to sit up. “We are nearly there.”

“Where?” she demanded querulously, opening her eyes.

As the stream of sunlight from the window struck her face, she groaned and leaned forward to hold her forehead. Her tongue felt thick, her ears rang, and her head seemed to reverberate to the sound. And she felt queasy. “I cannot even think—where are we?”

“I already asked,” Bertie answered, “and ’tis just some village.” He twisted his head to look out his window. “Says ‘Bennett’s Pur … ’—well, something of ‘Drinks of Virtue.’ ”

“I believe the word is ‘purveyor,’ “ Dominick murmured.

“I don’t feel virtuous just now,” Anne muttered, covering her mouth. “I think I’m going to be ill.”

“Egad.” Moving swiftly, the bigger man pushed open the carriage door and thrust Anne’s head down. “You’ll feel better when ’tis over,” he promised, holding her from behind.

“Watch out for m’coat!” Bertie cried. “And the floor!”

She gagged, then retched violently, bringing up soured wine into the street. Her whole body was cold and clammy as wave after wave of nausea washed over her. Finally there was nothing left in her stomach.

“Your handkerchief, Bascombe,” Dominick ordered brusquely, his arm still around Anne’s waist.

“ ’Tis trimmed with Venice lace, dash it, but…” Even as he complained, the younger man produced the lawn square. “Thought you was a-going to call me Bertie,” he added peevishly.

“Later. Feeling more the thing, Annie?” Dominick asked sympathetically. “Here, wipe your face. I daresay the worst is over.”

She pulled herself back weakly and sank against the squabs, closing her eyes. “I feel awful.”

“Ain’t the first to shoot the cat after a night of tippling,” Bertie assured her. “Done it more times than I can count. Got a devil of a head myself, if you was to know the truth of it.”

“Where are we?” she repeated, pressing the folded cloth against her aching forehead.

“Cribbs is procuring coffee from Bennett’s, and then you are going into Miss Porter’s to seek a gown.” Satisfied that she was not going to be sick again, Dominick sat back also. Drawing out the thin folded leather case, he opened it and selected several banknotes. “ ’Tis the best I can do just now,” he murmured apologetically, pressing them into her hand.

She looked down, and for a moment she nearly forgot the throbbing in her head. “Thirty pounds! Oh, but I cannot … that is, well, I could not … ’Tis too much!”

“Thirty pounds ain’t nothing—m’sisters spend more’n that on gloves. I say, Dominick, but it ain’t enough,” Bertie protested. “Dash it, but she ain’t got nothing!”

“This is scarce Madame Cecile’s,” Dominick reminded him dryly. Turning his attention to Anne, he explained, “If we are fortunate, Miss Porter will have something that you can bargain for on display. If not, I’ll find you something at the Haven.”

“I cannot go into an establishment like this. Look at me: I’ve no comb … I’m dirty … I look like a grubby schoolboy in Mr. Bascombe’s clothes.” She held out the soiled handkerchief for proof. “I am in sore need of a bath.”

“Alas, but that I cannot provide on the instant, Annie.”

“Mr. Bascombe, you tell him, I—”

“Told you—you can call me Bertie also.”

“Is there room for only one maggot in your brain, Bascombe?” Dominick demanded irritably. As the younger man lapsed into a wounded silence, he felt goaded. “Look, I’ve a devil of a head myself, Bertie, and ’tis not like to improve. If you would be helpful, you would go in with her, for she seems inclined to turn missish this morning.”

“Me
? But I ain’t … Dash it, I told you: I ain’t in the petticoat line! Wouldn’t even know what she was to wear! And I got room for lots of maggots in m’brain, if I was to want ’em!” Then, realizing what he’d said, he amended, “But I ain’t got any. I may be more’n a trifle foggy this morning, but I know when I am insulted,” he finished with feeling.

Dominick exhaled, then nodded. “Your pardon, Bertie,—I am easily tried.”

“And we are tired beyond bearing,” Anne murmured soothingly.

At that moment Cribbs returned, carrying a steaming flask and a tin cup in his mittened hand. “Made me pay fer the cup,” he explained. “Cut two lumps o’ sugar—woman wouldn’t let me have more. But if it ain’t sweet enough …”

“ ’Tis fine.” Dominick took the flask and poured coffee into the cup. Holding it out to Anne, he offered, “Miss Morland?”

She shuddered visibly. “I think I should prefer to put nothing in my stomach this morning.”

“Bertie?”

“Me neither.”

Dominick shrugged, then took a sip of that hot liquid. “A pity, for it would warm your bones.” With his free hand he wiped the steam from the window and pointed. “Miss Porter’s is over there. As she drapes the door and windows with her latest cloths, ’tis dim inside. Not to mention that she’s more than a trifle shortsighted from bending over her needle.”

“Shortsighted or not, I cannot but think she will surely notice Mr. Bascombe’s breeches on me,” Anne pointed out reasonably. “Besides, what could I possibly tell her?”

He favored her with a decidedly pained expression. “You and Bertie are returning from a mill, and being in bad graces with your female parent, you are wishful of taking a peace offering home,” he invented. “Show her the money, and let her greed do the rest.”

“A dress for a gift? I don’t think—”

“A dress, Annie.”

“Never heard such a faradiddle in my life!” Bertie declared. “Buy m’mother a gown? I can tell you right now she wouldn’t wear it!”

“Hopefully Miss Porter will not know that.”

“Tell you what—you go in with her.”

“I should be recognized on the instant.”

Anne glanced down at the money in her hand with misgiving. “I am not used to lying, Mr. Deveraux. If this Miss Porter is any judge of character, she will see through this pretense on the instant. ’tis doubtful that she will have anything made up.”

Bertie squinted out the window to read the sign on the shop. “Says ‘gowns of the latest stuffs.’ ”

“Which means only dress lengths of cloth,” she reminded him.

“She usually displays at least one gown on form to demonstrate her skill with her needle,” Dominick answered. “How suitable it is could be quite another matter. In any event, she will come off price if you are willing to haggle.”

“You seem rather well-acquainted with Miss Porter,” she commented, eyeing the building doubtfully.

“My mother is cheese-paring enough to recognize a bargain, Miss Morland. Bertie, your comb.”

“I ain’t sharing it. Dash it, but—”

“Bascombe—”

“Oh, all right! Damme if I got anything left to call my own,” he complained. Reluctantly he reached into his pocket, then dropped his comb into the other man’s hand. “There’s a bit of pomade on it,” he muttered. “Make her hair flatter’n it already is, if you was to ask me.”

“It cannot look worse.” Dominick set his cup on the seat beside him and leaned forward to drag the teeth through her tangled hair. When she winced, he apologized. “Sorry. I cannot say I am any hand at this.” Giving up on the comb, he ran his fingers beneath the disorder, lifting her flattened curls. Pulling some of them forward, he sighed. “You do look like a grubby schoolboy, you know.”

“Thank you,” she retorted acidly.

Bascombe shook his head. “Look like you was in the mill rather than watching it.”

Dominick drew out his watch and laid it on the seat beside his cup. “You can have fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes?
Plain you ain’t got any sisters, else you’d know it takes longer than that to rig ’em up,” Bertie snorted. “Takes m’sister Gussie hours to get ready to go to the demned lending library!”

“Fifteen minutes.”

Favoring Anne with a look of long suffering, Bascombe demanded, “Are you m’nevvy or m’brother? And who the devil am I, anyway?”

“I don’t care—I shall feel the veriest fool, sir.” Clutching the money in her hand, she reached to open the door. “If I am not clapped up in Newgate, ’twill be Bedlam,” she predicted direly.

“Guess you are m’brother,” Bertie decided, heaving himself after her. “Make it easier to explain. But I ain’t this Wrexham fellow—don’t like the name.” Casting a surreptitious look down the quiet street, he started for the draper’s. “Think I’ll be Bales.”

“Bales?”

“M’valet. Deuced starchy fellow—serve him right if I was to get in a scrape with it. Now, I don’t want you a-saying anything. We ain’t got time to chaw with the woman, you know.”

Dominick watched them disappear into the tiny shop, then leaned back wearily. He ought to be glad to be rid of both of them, but somehow he wasn’t. Now that he was nearly there, he did not relish the thought of going home. He sipped his coffee slowly, wondering if Annie Morland could be persuaded to stay with his mother. No, he decided, for she had said she wished for an employer of better disposition than the Philbrook woman, and he could not offer her that.

Once inside the small shop, Anne had to blink several times to adjust her eyes to the dimness. Taking a deep breath, she approached a woman she supposed to be the proprietress and blurted out, “We are come to buy a dress.”

“Name’s Bales,” Bertie announced hastily.

“Mr. Bales.”

“He’s Bales also—’m’brother.” As the woman’s eyes took in Anne’s disheveled appearance, he added, “Been to a mill, you know.”

“I see.” Her mouth drew into a thin line of disapproval. “ ’Twould appear, young man, that you are more in need of a tailor than a dressmaker.”

“Oh, it isn’t for us,” Anne said quickly.

“Right,” Bertie agreed. “Got to take m’mother something to keep her from cutting up a devil of a dust, don’t you know?” He peered past her curiously. “Ain’t you got anything as is ready—I mean, ain’t you got something as we could just take?”

“Mr. Bales, I assure you that I am noted for the fit of my gowns. I could not possibly—”

“Could we perhaps see what you have?” Anne asked.

“Well, there are the fashion plates, of course, and I can show you how the latest taffeta is made up, but I am sure your mother—”

“Taffeta? I don’t—”

“We’ll take it,” Bertie told the woman. “And a petticoat and whatever else goes underneath.”

“Slippers,” Anne remembered. “We must have slippers. But I am not at all sure that Mama would like taffeta, John. Perhaps a muslin? A dress length even—and a package of needles and thread.”

“Huh?” Perceiving that somehow Anne Morland was going to throw a spoke into the wheel, Bertie insisted, “Now, dash it, but you know she’d like a fancy gown! Bound to! Besides, you ain’t got the time to have anything made up.” Before either woman could demur, he declared, “We’ll take the demned taffeta! I ain’t got all day, you know. Give her the blunt.”

The promise of immediate money held great appeal for the seamstress, but she was not about to part with what she considered nothing less than an artistic creation for less than satisfactory remuneration. “Well,” she began slowly, “I do not in general sell my sample, sir. Perhaps you would prefer something else—a fur muff perhaps,” she added shrewdly.

“Unless your mama is a female of excellent taste …” Her voice trailed off. “Well, I could not part with the dress, Mr. Bales—nothing less than forty guineas would persuade me. ’Tis in the latest French style, after all.”

“Got twenty pounds says you sell the gown—and that ought to buy whatever goes under it. Ain’t got time to haggle. And we got to have slippers,” he recalled.

It was obvious that he’d struck a vulnerable spot. Though it was less than half what she’d asked, it would be immediate. “Twenty pounds?” she asked. “Scrip or bank draft?”

“Got the blunt right here,” he assured her.

“Even so, I’m afraid I should have to fit your mother—my reputation quite depends on the appearance of my dresses,” she said, wavering.

“If it don’t suit her, she’ll come in and have it adjusted,” Bertie promised. He turned to Anne. “Give the woman the money.”

“Don’t you think we ought to see the dress first?” Anne asked meaningfully.

“It don’t matter. If she ain’t got but one made up, then that’s what we got to buy. Here …” He reached to take the banknotes from her hand. “Tell you what—you wait in the carriage.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Box your ears if you don’t,” Bertie threatened. “Go on.” He counted twenty pounds into the bemused dressmaker’s hand, then told her, “If it ain’t ready in fifteen minutes—no, best make that ten—I want my blunt back.”